


How Mycroft Holmes Spent His First Christmas Not Alone

by eliza_doolittlethings



Series: Falling In Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 years prior to A Study In Pink, A Prequel to BBC Sherlock Series, M/M, Part 1 of 'Falling In Love' Series, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 13:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16893645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliza_doolittlethings/pseuds/eliza_doolittlethings
Summary: 5 years prior to 'A Study In Pink' when Greg meets Sherlock and ends up getting to know Mycroft.





	How Mycroft Holmes Spent His First Christmas Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank Lavender_and_Vanilla for helping me with the writing and editing, giving me the sorely lacking morale to post this on AO3.

**Chapter-1**

_[5 years prior to A Study In Pink]_

_[June 2005]_

 

Mycroft was tired. The change of guard in Parliament was always a critical time. And having a defiant younger brother only made matters worse.

Thank God for the new acting detective inspector! Sherlock seemed to have taken a shine to him. It could become problematic though.

No time to dwell on matters beyond one’s control, Mycroft shut the door to his Mind Archive firmly as he entered the House of Commons Chamber.

______~______

 

Few minutes into the meeting and his phone started to buzz in his coat pocket. Having asked Anthea to call-forward ALL calls, he knew it had to be an emergency, that too family emergency!

Rolling his eyes, he let out a frustrated breath of air and folded his arms over his chest; as if to prevent himself from the yielding to the temptation - he simply HAD to know what his not so little brother was up to.

Head bent in obligatory attention to the Transport Minister next to him detailing the role of the Ministry, Mycroft went through all possible scenarios.

______~______

 

Half an hour later, exiting the chamber with phone in hand, Mycroft unlocked the screen to a missed call from an unknown number. Eyes piercing the screen, he called back but was kept on hold.

Awaiting the caller to answer, Mycroft strode down the corridor to be met by one of his staff.

“Sir, your brother has been admitted to the Royal London Hospital. We are looking into the details. He was found among a few junkies under Tower Bridge. The police think they were planning on detonating a bomb. He was caught arguing. There was a fistfight. But, he is not seriously hurt,” the security personal kept to his spiel while accompanying Mycroft on his walk along the long corridor.

Mycroft had tried the caller again to no avail. He sent the number to Anthea for information and pocketed his phone, walking over to his office at the far end.

“Thank you, Andrew. Let me know when he is discharged,” Mycroft dismissed him outside his door, entered the office and shut himself in.

______~______

 

The clock struck midnight. Mycroft was still in his office. He had let Anthea go. Sitting there, in a nondescript room, he took out his phone and looked at the call received earlier that day.

Anthea had forwarded the details.

Acting DI Gregory Lestrade. Age - 37. Married. No children. Parents deceased. No siblings. Hardworking. Loyal. Respected in the force. 13 years experience.

As Mycroft stared at the photo of the acting DI, it rang - the same number. Pursing his lips in contemplation, he answered.

“Yes?” the detached question and the pause was effective. Mycroft waited patiently, assessing, listening to the calm breath at the other end of the line.

“Hello, is this Sherlock Holmes’ brother?” the confident gravelly voice waited for a reply.

“Yes, may I know who is speaking?” Mycroft asked rather too politely.

“This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade speaking. We have your brother under custody. The matter is quite serious. Would you come over to the station for questioning?” the man sounded a little apologetic.

The silence was like a bridge, connecting both conversationalists. Mycroft was going through the facts sent to him by his team.

Sherlock had uncovered a plan to bomb the bridge and had approached the boys to deter them, antagonising in the process.

“Is that necessary? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. No more,” Mycroft reasoned.

“Maybe. But we need a guardian to put up bail. Also, he is not making much sense as to how he discovered their plot,” said Gregory [Mycroft called him by name in his head].

“I will be there in the hour. Thank you acting DI,” Mycroft stressed on the ‘acting’ and cut the call.

Thumb moving over the screen, again and again, he recalled each conversation, memorising the voice and the intonation.

 

 

 

**Chapter - 2**

 

_[That Night]_

 

The formalities were over fast and Mycroft departed with Sherlock undertow to his apartment. Too engrossed with his first interaction with the acting DI during the ride he failed to notice Sherlock opening the car door as it slowed down for a signal. By then it was too late. He needed to acquire more personal to monitor his brother. Noting that in his to-do list, Mycroft returned to his musings.

At a very early age Mycroft had learnt to prioritise, especially when it came to family. Shutting down personal thoughts, he waited for his driver to open the car door, got out with his briefcase, walked to his front door, entered the passcode and mechanically went about his nightly rituals before heading to bed.

Sleep evaded him. Mycroft was not a man with obsessions. If he wanted something, he analysed the pros and cons and either went for it or ignored its clawing presence. This was different. He had never met someone who was so beguilingly genuine. That bothered him.

The ‘acting’ DI had a clean record, a good name in the force and was kind enough to listen to Sherlock’s deductions and reasoning, accepting the seemingly impossible explanations that only a ‘Holmes’ could follow. A man who had no ulterior motive. Fascinating!

Turning over to the other side, Mycroft adjusted the pillow under his head with his left hand, breathed in the comforting warmth and pulled the sheet over his shoulder with his right. He had to get ready in a couple of hours. Determined to get at least an hour’s rest, he withdrew his mind from any thoughts and relaxed.

______~______

 

Greg threw the house keys into the bowl by the door, kicked off his shoes to the corner, hung his coat and scarf on the coat stand, and went to the bedroom. Karen, his wife, was fast asleep. He stood there by the door, watching her sleeping figure bathed in the dim light from the hallway.

Scrubbing his face with both hands, rubbing his tired eyes, he trudged into the toilet, changed clothes and walked over to the bed. Gently sitting on the edge, contemplating a smoke, he slumped sideways on the bed and curled up, his back to Karen.

Greg dared not move, in case he woke her up. Not that he was afraid of her. It was just that they seemed to have very little to talk about, other than complaining about each other. And after the day he had been through, there was no way he would be able to keep his temper tonight.

Although, considering the personalities of the two Holmes brothers, he was exhausted from trying to follow their unspoken conversations. There was more going on there than a simple sibling misunderstanding. Something that he knew almost nothing about.

Karen had a whole load of them. Siblings. And Greg was popular among them. One more thing that irked her. Whatever was it that brought them together? Yes, of course - the Christmas party in his neighbourhood. He got so drunk that only after he woke up in Karen’s bed did he realise what had happened! They simply stuck to each other after that; eventually got married. 12 years!

What a disaster his life has been!

 

 

**Chapter - 3**

 

_[Few Weeks Later]_

 

“Sherlock, you cannot continue like this. Does your brother know about this?” Greg asked a little worried, dragging Sherlock away from the murder scene.

“ ….” Sherlock mumbled indistinctly, giving Greg the impression that the brothers had not met after the bail, which was a couple of weeks ago.

“Where do you live? Maybe I can drop you off,” Greg continued as he pushed Sherlock towards his car parked on the other side of the road.

The body was found near a disused parking lot; woman in her mid 40s, head blown to pieces. The police got a tip off from an anonymous call. On reaching the site, a crowd had already gathered, mostly homeless people.

The curly mop of hair was visible even from a distance. Sherlock had nudged his way in and was inspecting the body when Greg arrived. He seemed indifferent to his surroundings. Didn’t even recognise Greg.

The man was on drugs, Greg realised belatedly. That’s when he decided to drag Sherlock away, before anyone else recognised the signs.

“You need to search for a Ford Mondeo, preferably ‘94 or ‘95 model. The driver’s wheel is misaligned,” Sherlock said, as he stared into the distance. “It will be in the security cameras between 6 and 8 p.m.”

Greg stared at him, and then opened the car door, letting Sherlock silently get in.

______~______

 

Mycroft watched the interaction of his brother with the acting DI thoughtfully. He had been informed of the situation by his staff. The two operatives who were following Sherlock had reported the incident.

The new legislation that he had actively pushed forward allowed access to security footage of private firms with due authorisation. All paperwork was dealt with by Anthea.

Hopefully Sherlock will listen to him. Especially if it means he will get something out of it.

Mycroft closed the window to the feed determinedly and continued with his work.

 

______~______

 

Greg was a man who put his work first. Nothing else mattered; not his ego, not his name, neither his colleagues’ irk.

Also, he liked the boy. Yes, he was like a boy, who never grew up. Sherlock. Wonder what happened between the brothers.

The drug habit was not just a defiance of authority. Could be to avoid the overwhelming sense of suffocation from all the intelligence.

The academy made it a point to train the Criminal Investigators in psychology. Just the basics. And Greg could always identify trouble even before.

Reaching home late, as usual, he snuck in, changed and lay down silently. His stomach rumbled; reminding him that all he had eaten the whole day was a few doughnuts and coffee in litres!

Lying flat on his back, he looked up at the ceiling, wondering if he should search the fridge. No, he thought. Would wake the wife up. Better have an early breakfast.

Going over the events of the day, with Sherlock’s plight in mind he fell asleep.

 

 

**Chapter - 4**

 

_[July 2005]_

 

Sherlock had asked Greg to drop him off near Leicester Square. Now, Greg was no fool. He knew Sherlock was skirting the issue of accommodation. Greg could not invite him to his home. Karen would get into a fit.

Driving along the park in Leicester Square, he kept a lookout, every day. It seemed like Sherlock had simply disappeared.

Greg kept to his routine, until one day he got a call from Mycroft while he was busy chasing a suspect down an alley. Leaving Sally and the constables to continue, he attended the call, “Hello?”

“Acting Detective Inspector, hope I am not interrupting anything important. May I have a few words with you, if you don’t mind?” Mycroft succinctly came to the point, paused, and then continued, “There is a car waiting for you at the head of the alley.”

“Is this a threat?” Greg asked, recognising the voice, a little baffled.

“Do I have to?” Mycroft queried blithely. “Please get into the car.”

Shoving the phone into his coat pocket, Greg stomped towards the waiting car, then on second thought sent a text to Sally to arrest and charge the man while he had urgent business to attend to.

Fiddling with his thumb, he watched the route they were taking and concluded that the destination was Westminster Palace - Portcullis House.

______~______

 

Mycroft had moved into his new office a couple of days back, an improvement from the old featureless one. Not only was the decor to his tastes, it was equipped with all the latest techs and gave him the privacy to deal with personal matters; something that he abhorred, unless absolutely necessary.

And, Sherlock having gone underground was one such situation. His staff had tried their best, but Sherlock had found ways to avoid his brother’s attention to the extreme.

“Sir, we’ve found him!” an agent came rushing in, phone held to his ear. “Covent Garden.”

“Get a move on it!” Mycroft shouted, swiftly moving to get his coat and scarf.

“And the DI, sir?” the agent asked, hesitantly.

“Bring him to the address,” Mycroft ordered as he rushed past the agent out the office and entered the lift.

______~______

 

The sudden change in route alerted Greg; the driver was silent all the way. Bloody wireless devices; he must have gotten some instruction. Sitting back the ‘acting’ DI observed the landmarks and wondered if they had found Sherlock and if so, in what condition.

The place was familiar. It had a history of notoriety and though the whole locality had been organised to cover up a sordid past, there were still pockets of sinister areas for those seeking refuge from the prying eyes of the law.

No wonder he couldn’t find Sherlock.

As the car came to a stop next to a ruined building deep in the London Borough of Camden,

Lestrade saw the police tape and wrinkled his forehead. Licking his lips thoughtfully, he got out of the car, walked towards the officer standing guard, flashed his badge and walked in.

The cops were all over the place, but Greg could see the tall sharply dressed man with the umbrella bending down among the crowd and pushed his way through.

Reaching Mycroft, Greg hesitated, watching the controlled features of the brother who tried to get a response from the almost comatose brother lying on a dirty mattress. The boy was clearly not responding.

Greg bent down, dragged Sherlock up and put one shoulder under his arm, making him sit upright. Mycroft joined him on the other side and together they dragged him off to the car.

 

 

 

**Chapter - 5**

The ride was quiet. Neither spoke, as Sherlock slumped between them in the back seat. His head rolled occasionally from side to side, as he mumbled incoherently.

Greg checked on him every few minutes, never glancing once at the brother. He could not imagine what Mycroft Holmes was going through. So, this was a regular occurrence. A routine that seemed to have continued for quite a long time.

Fiddling with the trouser fold at the bend of his knee, Lestrade watched the route and figured they were going to Mycroft’s place - Richmond Terrace, Westminster.

Surprisingly, Mycroft didn’t have any lackeys to help him with his brother. Greg helped him all the way into his apartment.

After settling him in the guest bedroom - which was bare except for a made-up bed and a walk-in closet, Greg prepared to leave.

“Thank you, Detective,” Mycroft said apologetically.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all. Do you need any help? I can …” Greg stalled for the right word. He wasn’t sure if it would be agreeable to offer to stay the night.

“No, I can handle him. Please, my driver will take you home. Good night Detective,” Mycroft professionally countered the moment, walked to the door and waited for Lestrade to join him.

______~______

 

Mycroft deftly changed the sheets with Sherlock lying in a haze, shivering, mumbling; moving him from side to side, then wiping him down and covering him with a blanket. He timed the injection, waited for any adverse response cleaning him when he threw up.

Sitting with him through the night, making sure that he was well hydrated, Mycroft tried to immerse himself in work. Yet, thoughts of the ‘acting’ DI kept intruding.

The state of his marriage was obvious from his person, while that of his mind from his persona. It was deplorable.

Sitting back in the chair placed close to the bed to watch Sherlock, yet far enough to look out the window, Mycroft rubbed the knot of his tie with his left hand and straightened it, out of habit - small ticks that he had mastered as mannerisms to mask his agitation.

______~______

 

Greg reached home late, as usual. And as usual, he realised that he was hungry. Risking a cross-examination, he headed straight to the kitchen, rummaged the fridge and settled with a glass of milk, a couple of bread slices and some butter.

Head bent on a slice of bread, spreading the butter evenly from one edge to other, he missed the all-encompassing gaze of his silent wife standing by the door, fully dressed, coat in hand. Lifting the slice of bread to his mouth, Greg paused, mouth open, taking in the scene, reading more than his heart permitted.

Gently placing the bread back on the plate, he dusted his fingers, wiped them on his trousers and opened his mouth to speak.

“There is nothing to say. I need some time for myself. I’ll be at my sisters. Of course, I cannot say for how long right now. And, you needn’t bother to drop me off. I’ve asked for a cab. Just, give me some time to decide, ok?” Karen walked closer as she spoke, reached the kitchen island, leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and walked out.

Greg sat there, not moving, listening to her shut the door behind her.

 

 

**Chapter- 6**

 

_[August 2005]_

 

Lestrade got himself lost in work - the best medicine for a wounded heart. Not that he didn’t see it coming. Only, he was reluctant to admit that he was a failure as a husband.

Time flew and he almost forgot about the Holmes brothers. Whenever he reached a crime scene, the curly mop of hair would flash in his mind, not for long; the worried brother with controlled emotions. But the matter-at-hand kept him occupied.

Karen’s friends and relatives sympathised with him, tried reassuring him; but he avoided them. It was not easy to talk about the why and the how. He knew that there were no excuses. That both were equally at fault.

______~______

 

It became a routine, getting up just in time for the ride to the station, getting a coffee, working late, going to the pub, alone or with his colleagues, taking a cab home or getting a lift.

The whole cycle was toppled during the arrest of the suspect from the case Sherlock had helped clue him on - the Ford Mondeo. Though more than a month later, the police had enough evidence for the arrest and ‘acting’ DI Gregory Lestrade was put in charge of the suspect’s impounding.

As Greg and his assistant Sergeant Sally rounded the house, the noise alerted him. Signalling Sally, they split up and while Greg approached a shed in the backyard, Sally hid behind a barrel on the opposite side, with a clear shot at the door.

The loud bang from inside the house alerted the suspect, who dashed out brandishing a knife. Greg tackled him to the ground before Sally could get trigger-happy. The man was burly and easily wrestled Greg to his back.

Eventually with the help of Sally they arrested the man. He was the victim’s brother, seeking revenge for her testimony against him 14 years back, in a drug smuggling racket.

Greg stood there looking at Sally leading the man away in handcuffs and felt ill.

“You’ve been stabbed,” the voice from behind, familiar, was distant.

______~______

 

Greg woke up to the sound of a lady arguing with the same voice.

“Sh… Sherlock …” Greg whispered.

“He’s awake! Why not ask HIM!?” Sherlock pushed his way past the nurse and approached Greg lying on the hospital bed.

“You need to tell her that I am your only relative,” Sherlock demanded, shaking him by the left shoulder.

“Mm. Yes, he is,” Greg managed as he lifted his right hand to feel the painful area on his right side. There were stitches - five. It will leave a scar.

Sighing, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock peering back at him next to the bed.

“What do you want?” Greg asked, voice still hoarse.

As he tried to sit up, Sherlock pressed the button that allowed the bed to rise to a reclining position.

Greg pointed to the cup of water with a straw that was placed on one side, and licked his lips.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock viewed the cup, then looked back at Greg and said, “You need to let me in on your cases.”

“Whaat?” Greg’s voice slurred. “Please, Sherlock, the water.”

“Fine! Here,” grudgingly, Sherlock placed the water on the foldable table in front of Greg and flopped onto the visitor’s chair in the corner.

 

 

 

**Chapter 7**

 

Mycroft was worried. There was no news of his brother. Which should be a relief. Only, if he was silent that only meant ‘the calm before the storm’. He was never of a disposition to remain idle for more than a couple of days. And it had been more than two months since his drugged state.

The demands of the political situation kept him preoccupied, giving him no time for personal agendas. Still, he had his brother monitored by his staff.

Nothing was enough to keep constant vigil when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Grimacing, Mycroft accessed the feed from Scotland Yard. There was no other way. However tempting it was to watch the ‘acting’ DI and assess his state of mind, Mycroft had resisted the urge.

There was a sense of relief as he gave in to the curiosity, with the thought of ‘doing it for his brother’ in mind. What disappointed him was the fact that the DI was not at his table.

Something was up. Calling Anthea, asking to go through the past two months security footage, Mycroft hastily left his office for another meeting.

______~______

 

The perfect excuse gave Mycroft the opportunity to do something that he would not have, under ordinary circumstances.

Stop analysing; he chastised himself, as he walked into the hospital, umbrella in hand, maintaining a grim face. Encountering Sherlock with his intentions evident was never good.

Anyway, this was just a testing of the waters, to survey future possibilities; he kept to his professional indifferent demeanor as he knocked on the door to Lestrade’s room - 521. Adding up to 8, it made him feel right. He’d always liked the no. 8.

“Com’in,” the voice of Lestrade was steady.

Slowly entering the hospital room, Mycroft assessed the situation before making any remarks.

“I apologise for my brother’s thoughtlessness, which I am sure was not ill meant, even if ill-timed,” Mycroft smoothly introduced the common topic; safer to discuss and making it easier to take in the DI’s state of being.

Greg looked at him blankly and said, “Yeah, right.”

“He is quite impulsive and stubborn. It is very hard to convince him otherwise when his mind is set on something,” Mycroft tried, half-heartedly, to convince Gregory of his brother’s childishness.

The door banged open, “They have vile coffee! I got you tea, which is equally bad,” Sherlock stopped dead by the door, seeing his brother stand there in the middle of the room, unmoving, his umbrella twirling, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, scrutinising the DI.

______~______

 

“What’s there to apologise for?” Sherlock grumbled as he slouched in the chair by the bed.

Greg was propped up, sipping his tea. “It’s fine. No harm done,” he said, weakly smiling up at Mycroft who was staring down at his brother. “We got the bastard. That’s what’s important,” he added, looking into his paper cup.

“Well, not risking an officer’s life. You need to learn to do things the proper way,” Mycroft spoke disapprovingly, his voice low yet harsh.

“What do you care? You never bothered before,” Sherlock muttered, turning away from them facing the wall, his tall frame curled up into a ball in the tiny seat.

“Why don’t you come with me and stop bothering the detective? Let him recover,” Mycroft moved towards his brother as if to make him rise from the chair.

“Leave me alone!” Sherlock sprang from the chair and rushed out of the room.

 

 

 

**Chapter 8**

 

_[September to November 2005]_

 

The Holmes brothers developed a habit of appearing on crime scenes, one after the other - first the younger and when the scene cleared, Greg found the black car idling a few blocks away. He got used to the routine of allowing Sherlock to scout the scene and ‘deduce’ the crime. After giving instructions to his team, he ended up giving a brief account to Mycroft, who asked less and spoke even less.

Greg had begun to enjoy his alone time, the freedom to not worry about a clash of interests, treading on toes, forgetting plans. And of course Sherlock helped in keeping his mind occupied. The boy always got into some trouble or other. His brother seemed to have absolutely no control over him.

Every time a case was solved, Mycroft grew reticent, thoughtful. As if expecting the worst now that Sherlock had nothing to occupy him. Unasked, Greg sought the boy’s advice more than was needed, if only to keep him engaged. Still, it was never enough.

Within a span of three months, Mycroft and Greg pulled him put of questionable properties more times than they could account for.

Greg realised that Sherlock was so used to getting things done his way that he took Greg’s help for granted. There was only one way to make him learn life the hard way - nothing is good when spoon-fed.

Greg worked himself hard over the weeks to the holidays. With only a week to Christmas, most of his colleagues were on vacation and he magnanimously offered to cover for them. Intentionally or otherwise, his thoughts strayed less to Sherlock and his brother.

______~______

 

Mycroft was surprised of the sudden reticence of Lestrade. He had accepted their routine meetings and was even contemplating moving a step further in their acquaintance, when the ‘acting’ DI suddenly cut off all contact.

The holiday season was always hectic for the police force. Considering Lestrade’s commitment to helping Sherlock overcome his sense of ‘boredom’, it could not be accepted as a reason for his voluntary exclusion of Sherlock in case solving. The past three months were proof of that.

Sherlock left to himself for more than a couple of days could only result in horrific scenarios. Mycroft had gotten used to a helping hand where matters concerned his delinquent brother. Something that he had not had throughout his life.

DI or no DI he had to locate Sherlock soon.

______~______

 

A week before Christmas, Greg was on a high-speed car chase, the suspect of a homicide crime fleeing the scene in a battered truck. The police had received an anonymous tip regarding disturbances in an abandoned house near Southampton, Hampshire, and Winchester. The police force that arrived on the scene, suspecting foul play, called in the Homicide Squad.

The call came right during the hot pursuit. Ignoring it, Greg sped full ahead, back up still a few blocks away. The radio chatter of the police control incessantly blared inside the car, along with his phone ringing non-stop.

Determinedly, Lestrade cut through vehicles, lips tight, eyes totally focused, pulling up to the truck and forcing the suspect off the road, hitting a couple of bins, coming to a smoky halt.

Jumping out of the police car, he pulled out the cuffs, ran over to the passenger side through which the driver was making an attempt at escape.

Tackling him onto the open door Greg cuffed him to the door handle and made the call as sirens blared nearby.

______~______

 

Pulling out the mobile from his coat pocket, Greg scrutinised the 11 missed calls, all from the same number of Mycroft Holmes.

Scrubbing his face in frustration, baring his teeth, Lestrade made the call. It rang and rang, making him wonder if he should hang up.

Right then he heard the impatient voice of Mycroft, “Hello!”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes? You called?” Greg countered equally frustrated.

“Ah, yes Detective. Nice of you to call back. Everything is under control now. Sorry for disputing your activities. Please feel free to continue with whatever it is that you were up to. Good night,” Mycroft contemptuously cut the call before Greg could utter a response.

Greg looked at his mobile screen wondering if he should call again. It had to have been important or else Mycroft would not have called. Sherlock could be in trouble. But, it was not like he was out on a date or anything. He was doing his job.

How could Mycroft expect him to babysit his brother 24/7?

______~______

 

Reaching home late, Greg could not sleep. Try as he might, the thought of him nothing there for the brothers bothered him.

Picking up his phone from the bedside table he unlocked the screen and called Mycroft. The phone was answered on the third ring.

“Yes?” Mycroft soft voice, sounded exhausted.

“I’m coming over,” Greg replied fast, cut the call and dressed rapidly. Picking up the car keys and his mobile, he was out in a flash and reached Mycroft’s in 10 minutes.

Greg rang the bell and waited, rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets, mouth twisting according to his train of thought. As he bit his lower lip the from door opened, revealing a disheveled Mycroft in shirt sleeves, folded to his elbows, sans coat and waistcoat, tie loosened, collar button open. His hair was unruly, as if he had been running his fingers through them and his eyes looked sunken, as if he had not slept for days.

“Have you eaten anything?” was Greg’s first question, as he pushed past Mycroft into the apartment, making his way to the kitchen.

Narrowing his eyes at Lestrade’s back, Mycroft closed the door silently and followed him.

______~______

 

“Where did you learn to cook?” Mycroft asked, comfortably ensconced in the window seat next to the kitchen counter.

Greg had made them dinner - pasta, grilled vegetables and mushroom. He was now making ‘mulled wine’.

Sherlock was fast asleep in the guest bedroom, recovering from his cocaine-induced coma.

“Telly, also YouTube,” Greg smiled as he answered, eyes on the pot on the stove.

Mycroft sat with his back resting on the edge of the windowsill, legs bending at the knee, socked feet against the opposite wall, both hands hugging his right knee.

A perfect Holiday picture of a happy couple.

Only time will tell how it would all turn out!

______~____________~____________~____________~____________~____________~____________~____________~____________~______


End file.
